Shattered: A Shade novella

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  An uncomfortable pause follows as no one comments. I have failed at Society.

  ‘Do ye miss America?’ Possibly-Robert asks.

  I take a sip of Irn Bru to hide the surge of rage I feel towards the country that tortured me. Then I hold up the bright-orange soft drink. ‘Not as much as I missed this.’

  They laugh, and the blond one sidles closer, almost touching me. I resist the urge to inch away.

  ‘There must be something you miss about the States,’ he says.

  ‘You mean besides my girlfriend?’

  He glances at Martin without turning his head. ‘Is he serious or just winding me up?’

  ‘I told you Zach was my mate. That wasnae a euphemism.’

  ‘Why’s he here, then?’

  ‘For the music. And there’s nae chance he’ll cheat on his girlfriend in this place.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ Bright Eyes keeps his gaze locked with mine as he sips his beer.

  My face heats, but in a good way. Flirting will make me feel like myself again. ‘Am I in danger of distraction?’ I ask him.

  ‘Not from us.’ He looks past my shoulder and tilts his chin up. ‘Those burds, maybe.’

  I turn to see them entering, led by one in white lace, suspenders, and sequins. A hen party, crashing the place. Well.

  They parade past us to the other end of the bar, squealing and laughing. I crane my neck to watch. After my incarceration, my eyes are hungry for all sorts of beauty.

  Then I return my attention to the lads, who regard me with dismay, except for Martin who, as always, regards me with amusement.

  ‘Sorry,’ I tell them. ‘What were we talking about?’

  A new song comes on, one I’ve not heard, and the blond lad closest to me says, ‘It’s my favourite – ’mon, Martin!’ My best mate looks back with concern as he’s dragged away, but I wave him off.

  Bright Eyes and Possibly-Robert share a glance, then look at me. I shake my head. ‘Youse go on too. Maybe I’ll join you for the next.’

  I stand alone by the bar watching the crowd on the dance floor, including – okay, especially – the hen-party girls. My interest in them, however, soon fades to annoyance. They were clearly pished out of their minds before they arrived, and now they’re taking up more room than groups of lads twice their size. The bride-to-be keeps whipping her long sparkly veil into people’s faces as she spins. Those wee beads must sting on impact.

  The song changes to a slower, more sensuous tune. I avert my eyes from Martin and his lad as they grind away at each other – not because it makes me uncomfortable, but because Martin’s such an awful dancer, it’s a struggle not to laugh.

  ‘Another Irn Bru?’

  I turn at the sound of the bartender’s voice, then follow his gaze to the empty bottle in my hand. I’ve peeled off the entire label, which lies shredded at my feet. Perhaps I’m more anxious than I thought.

  Enough caffeine. ‘Tennent’s this time,’ I tell him.

  He hesitates, probably deciding whether to ask for my ID. Technically the drinking age is eighteen, unless the drinker’s buying a meal, which I’m not.

  ‘Please,’ I add with a smile I hope doesn’t look desperate. My personal charms are rusty, to say the least.

  ‘Of course.’ He flips a pint glass and grins at me as he moves to the tap. I watch the pale lager fill the glass and suddenly remember that all my meds say DO NOT CONSUME ALCOHOL. But one pint shouldn’t hurt, right?

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  I turn to see a ginger-blonde nearly my height and perhaps a few years older. Her dark green dress plunges deep at her neck and rises high on her thighs.

  I self-consciously kick aside the pile of Irn Bru-label remnants. ‘I could ask you the same question.’

  ‘This place has got the best DJ in the city, they say. And Corrine – that’s our bride – she just wanted to dance and not be molested by lads who think she’s out for one last secret shag.’ As she speaks, she slides a fingertip just inside her dress’s neckline, her red nails reflecting the lurid bar light as they descend. ‘So what’s yer excuse for coming?’

  I lean my elbow on the bar, feigning casualness. ‘What makes you think I don’t belong here?’

  ‘You’re the first lad tonight who’s looked through my clothes instead of at them.’

  I glance away. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m not.’ She shifts closer, inside my personal space. My pulse spikes with fear. It was one thing to watch her from a distance, but now I wish a trap door would open beneath my feet.

  ‘Here’s yer Tennent’s.’ The bartender nudges my elbow with a cardboard coaster and sets the glass upon it. He points two fingers at his eyes, then mine, then his again. ‘Gies a look if you need anything else.’ He winks before turning away.

  The girl’s narrowed gaze darts between me and him. ‘Ah. Perhaps you fancy both?’

  ‘We all love bartenders, aye?’ I take a long gulp of lager, hoping it’ll calm my racing heart. At least with this lass, I’ve no obligation to be friendly. I can just walk away if it’s too much.

  And it is, so I will.

  I take a step to the left. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m—’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ She moves to block my escape. ‘My name’s Kenzie.’

  My eye sockets throb with a rush of rage. I feel I could shoot optic blasts out of them, like X-Men’s Cyclops. Anything to get Kenzie away from me without touching her.

  ‘So how about a dance?’ she asks.

  ‘With you?’

  ‘Naw, with Margaret Thatcher’s corpse. Aye, with me.’

  ‘I can’t, I’m-I’m not available.’

  ‘It’s just a dance,’ Kenzie says, but her eyes promise more. She reaches for my arm.

  ‘I said no!’ I raise my glass to smash it on the floor in front of me.

  ‘Ah, there you are.’ Martin pops his head between us. ‘Hiya, lass. Sorry, this yin’s taken.’

  She tosses her hair. ‘Yours, then?’

  I set down my pint with a trembling hand. ‘Aye, I’m-I’m his.’ I lift my arm as if to put it around his shoulders, but it won’t fall. Instead it hovers awkwardly, then drops to my side.

  Kenzie’s lips form a thin, hard line. ‘You’re not fooling anyone.’

  ‘He’s fooling everyone. It’s what he does.’ Martin holds out his hand. ‘You’ve rested long enough, lad. Come dance again before someone steals me.’

  Our eyes meet, and his soften in an It’s okay I won’t hurt you expression. I seize his hand.

  He guides me through the crowd, steering us clear of other bodies. We find an empty space, and he tugs me close enough to speak over the blare of music. ‘Sorry, it seemed the only way tae save you.’

  ‘Thanks. I needed saving.’

  ‘You also need dancing.’ He lets go of me and starts to rock his body in a ridiculous way, giving me a goofy grin. ‘’Mon, show us what ye got!’

  He’s right, I do need dancing. A new song’s begun, one I heard on the radio while driving with Aura that last night together. I close my eyes and let the music take over, remembering how she sang along, shimmying her shoulders, and how she put her hand on my thigh during the second chorus and kept it there until we arrived at our old stargazing field. I pretend she’s here, pressed close to me. I tell myself I’d never shy away from her touch like I did from Kenzie’s.

  As the song fades, I feel almost part of myself again, that this blood is my blood and this breath is my breath. That this body is my body.

  Then the music changes, to an unfamiliar tune. My feet lose the rhythm. I stop dancing, dazed, and for a moment just watch everyone around me.

  Martin notices and asks, ‘Ye tired? Want a break?’

  ‘No.’ This feeling’s not fatigue, it’s … unnerving but unnameable. ‘Thank you for bringing me tonight.’

  He just smiles and keeps dancing, with an unself-consciousness that makes my heart ache. I want that freedom, that joy, for my own.<
br />
  So I keep dancing too.

  * * * *

  This dream won’t even grant me walls. It’s just blank white, with no ups or downs.

  Standing (sitting? tumbling?) in the void, I hold up my hands. They look false, laid against no one else’s skin.

  The fading starts at my fingertips. Nothingness devours them, turning my knuckles to air. Then my palms, my wrists. I scream at my arms to fight back. They flap and flail until they’re gone as well, and the nothingness is at my throat, swallowing the shrieks.

  I sit half up in bed, choking, my gut leaping towards my mouth. This time, I’m certain breath won’t come. This time, I’m certain I’ll die.

  ‘Zachary?’ A touch on my elbow, which apparently still exists. My arm snaps out, my fist making solid, wet contact.

  A woman screams. This stops my struggle at last, but I still can’t pry open my eyes.

  ‘What is it? What happened?’ My father’s voice. Why is he here? Where is here?

  A bright light flashes on, and I finally open my eyes. Dad stands on the threshold to my bedroom, clutching the doorjamb, horror coating his face.

  But he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the floor beside my bed, where my mother sits crying. My knuckles feel fresh pain.

  ‘Oh God. Mum!’ I try to lurch out of bed, but the covers are wrapped about my legs, so I roll halfway onto the floor and rest suspended, arse over head. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You should be sorry!’ My father kneels beside her, with difficulty. ‘How could you strike yer own mother?’

  ‘It wasn’t his fault,’ she sobs. ‘Zachary, I didn’t mean to frighten you. You were screaming again. I only wanted to make the nightmare stop.’

  ‘You did.’ I wrench myself back onto the bed and start untangling my legs. ‘Are you hurt? Let me get you some ice.’

  She dabs at her forehead and around her eye. ‘I’m not bleeding. But ice would be lovely, thank you.’

  I dash downstairs, clutching the banister to keep from spilling forwards. My feet are numb – as if that blasted blankness of the dream really did devour them – but my legs ache from last night’s dancing.

  It wasn’t a perfect evening, our trip to the club, but it was good. I was ninety percent normal and managed to control my intermittent impulses to run and hide. So I went to sleep feeling like I was on the road to recovery.

  And now this.

  I grab an ice pack from the freezer, along with a tea towel to wrap it in. At the bottom of the steps, I hear my parents’ voices in the upstairs hall toilet. I climb quietly, avoiding the creaky spots.

  ‘Ian, stop fussing,’ Mum says from behind the door. ‘It’s barely a scratch.’

  ‘You’ll have a black eye for days,’ Dad growls.

  ‘That’s what makeup is for. I’m more worried for Zachary. He’s changed.’

  ‘The therapy and medicine will get him back on his feet.’ There’s a sound of a soft kiss. ‘Dinnae worry, love. If he can find his old self again anywhere, it’s here.’

  I sink onto the top step and look straight down the dark wooden staircase. Every inch of this house is part of me. I know which kitchen cupboards stick and which have loose knobs. I know exactly how far to turn each shower tap to get the perfect temperature. Outside, I know which cracks in the pavement grow dandelions and which grow only tufts of grass.

  But whether my old self is still here – that’s one secret this house won’t share.

  Chapter Six

  Date: September 22 (autumnal equinox)

  Weight: 64kg

  Hours sleep in last week: 16

  Nightmares in last week: 7

  Flashbacks in last week: 2

  Panic attacks in last week: 2

  Days since 3A: 28

  Days until Aura: 89

  ‘Here ye go.’ I set a plate before Dad on the kitchen table. ‘Dinner from last night. And remember, I cooked, so no slagging the food while I’m in the room.’

  He frowns at the array of steamed vegetables, herbed couscous, and grilled salmon. ‘Have ye still got yer old microscope? I need help finding the meat.’

  ‘Mum says you’ve got to eat healthier.’ The microwave beeps, signaling my porridge is ready. Most days I eat breakfast while Dad eats lunch. Over the last three weeks, the four of us – me, him, Mum, and Martin – have settled into a comfortable routine. It helps numb my mind, which is all I want.

  ‘What’s the point of eating healthier? It’s not as if it’ll add years to my life.’

  ‘Ye never know.’ I take my bowl and sink into the chair across from him. ‘If you’re stubborn enough to stay on this earth till the new year, there’ll be that immunotherapy trial. That could add years to yer life.’

  ‘Even if I qualify, it’s just an experimental treatment.’

  ‘Penicillin was once an experimental treatment. Now eat, widje?’ I check my phone – under the table, since my parents hate when I use it during meals – for messages from Aura. The autumnal equinox is tonight, when she’ll try to turn a shade back to a ghost, like she did for Logan six months ago. Ghosts transform into shades when they’re overcome with rage and bitterness. But once they’ve gone shade, they can’t go back, and only ghosts can eventually pass on and find peace beyond this world.

  If Aura succeeds, it could change everything. There could finally be hope for those tortured souls trapped in the eternal despair of shadedom.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Dad asks.

  ‘Nothing.’ I put away my phone, which contains no new messages, then start to eat.

  To my relief, Dad joins me, though only in wee bites that wouldn’t fill the baby spoon my mum used to feed me with (which she still keeps in the kitchen drawer). ‘You’re putting weight back on, I see.’

  ‘It’s from eating all your leftovers,’ I quip, avoiding the subject of why I needed to regain weight in the first place.

  It used to be easy to dance around personal topics with Dad. We’re men, after all. We only ever spoke of Aura because it was his job to protect her from Them. The ones he couldn’t protect me from. The ones he won’t stop asking about.

  Silence thickens the air. My brain grasps for the latest football scores to keep the conversation casual, but I can’t even remember who played yesterday, much less who won.

  Dad reaches for his cup of water. I let him, though his fingers tremble. He hates being helped, but hates even more having to ask for help, so I’ve learned to spot the tiny hesitations that tell me he needs a hand. It’s a fine line, and on either side lie rage and sorrow. Not to mention prolific profanity.

  He sips and sets the cup down. ‘Zachary, you’ve been home four weeks. I know it’s difficult for you to talk about … that time, but I need to know what happened.’

  ‘Why? It’s over. I’m free and safe now, or so you and Mum keep telling me.’

  He drops his fork onto his plate with a clatter. ‘Because I want to make them pay!’

  ‘I don’t need revenge.’ My voice is as quiet as his was loud. ‘I just need to forget.’ If everyone would let me.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t forget how they turned my son into a shadow of himself. Not when I see ye float around the house every day like a – like a ghost.’

  ‘I’m just tired.’ I scrape the tip of the spoon back and forth against the bottom of the ceramic bowl. ‘Dr McFarlane and I are trying different combinations of meds.’ According to her, I’ve something called acute stress disorder, which is post-traumatic stress disorder that’s lasted less than a month. Four more days till I level up to PTSD. Huzzah.

  I thought I’d be better by now. Not completely better, of course – I know these things take time. I’ve read accounts of those with PTSD, mostly soldiers or victims of assault. Their symptoms are terrifyingly familiar: flashbacks, nightmares, insomnia, detachment, rage. And eventually numbness.

  Problem is, they’re all traumatised by Things That Happened. Me, I’m haunted by No Thing That Happened. So what right have I to put
myself beside those who’ve suffered beatings, rape, and war? Why was I so weak to let this Nothingness follow me home?

  ‘It’s not just fatigue, lad.’ My father’s voice is soft now. ‘I see the fear in your eyes. I hear you doing your “perimeter checks”, as you call them, every night. You’re not the same.’

  I keep stirring, pushing the porridge into one corner of the squarish bowl like a snowplough cleaning a car park. ‘Have I failed to care for you? Am I not doing what you need?’

  ‘You’ve done more than I could ever ask. But for your own good, you—’

  ‘They never delivered yer letters, did ye know that? Every day for two months, I waited for them to come and tell me you were dead.’ I don’t add that by August I would’ve welcomed it, or any words from another human. ‘I didn’t know if I’d be released during my lifetime, much less yours.’ I leave the spoon in the bowl, sticking straight up from the thick porridge. ‘So it’s true I’ve changed, that I’m more afraid of losing you than ever. But that fear’s not from anything done to me, other than being kept in the first place. I was not … harmed.’

  My voice almost breaks on the lie. I feel harmed, whether I’ve a right to or not.

  ‘Okay.’ Dad picks up his fork. ‘You’ll talk about it when you’re ready. I won’t ask again.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I tell him, and mean it with all my heart.

  ‘But please know this, son: you’re safe now. From the DMP, Nighthawk, all of them. You’re safe.’

  Perhaps I am. But Aura’s not. And if my silence can keep her safe, then it can shatter me, smother me, slay me. I don’t care.

  I will carry on.

  * * * *

  The next morning I’m awakened at 11.24 a.m. by a triumphant text from Aura: It worked! Details tonight.

  She did it. She turned a shade back to a ghost, perhaps saving its soul in the bargain.

  I praise her with a Gaun yersel, hen! text, then try to sleep another half hour. But waiting for her ‘details’ makes me restless. I need to run, burn off this nervous energy, or I’ll go mad.